


I Can't Stay

by trainwhistlesatnight



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Emetophobia, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I didn't mean to upload this this early guess it means i have to finish it, Vomit, ask to tag, tags to be added as it goes on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25069090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwhistlesatnight/pseuds/trainwhistlesatnight
Summary: Dexter has been blaming himself for Larrikin's death, and he needs to do something about it
Relationships: The Dead Men - Skulduggery Pleasant
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Some Don't Cope At All

Everyone handled the end of the war differently. Some coped in better or worse ways. Some didn't cope at all.

  
The end of the war was a relief, but it also was, instead of the release of a long-held breath, the intake. The release would happen weeks, months later, when things finally felt like they could even begin to go back to normal.

  
Dexter hated being in one place for too long, it made his body ache, the held in air made his lungs ache, made him want to scream for a breath he just couldn't make himself take yet. He supposed, his way of coping was better than most's. It started with him taking walks, long ones. Just to move, to see, to get something done and believe that he was still alive. It was like he was afraid that if he didn't move for too long, he'd rust over and be stuck. And, though he had quickly developed a love of the still-recently come out movie, _The Wizard of Oz_ , he was not eager to become the Tin Man. Plus, he'd never liked chopping wood, anyway.

  
He'd walk and walk until nightfall, and then walk back home, get fussed over by Saracen and whoever else of the Dead Men happened to be there, and he'd sleep it off, wake up, eat breakfast, and do it again. He didn't think much during it, just walked and saw and took things in. He was in a constant state of disassociation, of not fully being there and trying to convince himself he was.

  
The world in this state was.. Too sharp, like even the softest of downy feathers from baby birds could cut him to shreds. And yet, he wasn't afraid of this. He wasn't afraid of anything at all, not anymore. And this wasn't a 'he had survived the impossible, so he was unkillable', or the invincibility children are sure they have till they realize their own mortality. This was a heavy, shifted-10-degrees-to-the-left, sort of non-fear. The kind one only got when their brains were trying to convince them they _had_ died, they weren't real. That nothing could hurt them anymore, no matter how tall the height. So, why not jump, just to feel what it would be like to fly, even just for a moment.

  
Dexter lost sleep because of it. But, the hardest part was forcing himself to remember that he wasn't the one who died.


	2. He Didn't Blame Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I accidentally maybe posted this and then redacted it when I was first posting these so of you've seen it before pretend you haven't.)
> 
> Updates every Saturday.

Ghastly set down a plate in front of a nodding Dexter, "you look like shit, Dexter." Dexter shook himself slightly more awake, dragging a hand down his face, pulling at the bags under his eyes.

  
"Really know how to make a man feel beautiful, Ghastly." He replied, grabbing at the fork and cutting his eggs with it. The yolk of over-easy eggs spilled on the whites of the egg, and in a fashion that was becoming far too familiar, Dexter pushed away the plate. "I'm.. I'm not hungry." He mumbled. Did everything have to remind him of watching parts of Larrikin's body burst open and bleed over itsself? Apparently so. 

  
Ghastly pushed the plate back, turning it so the toast faced Dexter this time, "I'm not here to make you feel beautiful, I'm here to make sure you eat. Saracen says he hasn't seen you do so in days. He's worried." Dexter tried to push the plate away again, frowning, but it was quickly pushed back towards him. "Eat, at least just a piece of toast so I can tell him you ate something."

  
Dexter frowned further, "what does it matter?" He mumbled, "I'm not hungry.." He mumbled something further, but picked up the toast, and took a bite anyway. It tasted like burnt ash, and tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to blink them back, he really did, but Ghastly was too quick for his own good sometimes. 

  
"What did you say?"

  
"'M not hungry. 'S'all." Ghastly leaned forward a bit, glancing up at Dexter as he steepled his fingers, browns furrowed.

  
"I think there was more, Dex. What're you thinking about?" Dexter, for his part, couldn't return the eye contact, staring at his toast and tearing pieces of it off to try and eat that way. It didn't make it taste better. (It wasn't that Ghastly was a bad cook, just everything tasted bad at this point in Dexter's life.)

  
"I.." He swallowed. Once, twice, forcing a drier piece of toast to go down past the lump forming in his throat. There was no lying to Ghastly when he looked at you like he looked at Dexter. "I said that- that I don't.. Don't deserve it, anyway." One hand turned into a fist, pressing half circle indents into his palm.

  
Ghastly leaned back, wiping his eyes with his palm for a moment. How did you talk about this? How did you convince your friend that he didn't deserve to die without implying the other did? How did you convince your friend he had to, deserved to eat, when couldn't convince himself he did? 

  
Ghastly was a smart man, but that did not mean he had all the answers.

  
The hand came down, and he looked at Dexter. Dexter looked exactly like Ghastly had described him earlier, like shit. His hair was uncombed, his shirt was dirty, and Ghastly was fairly sure he'd worn it for several days in a row now despite having several perfectly clean shirts in the closet. His pants were wrinkled and he'd clearly slept in them. He hadn't bathed, he hadn't tried for about a week. It seemed like his cheeks were getting more hollow every day, and his eyebags taking up more and more of his face. Ghastly, was still going through how own grief, too, though. He couldn't blame Dexter for not wanting to take care of himself.

  
They had each lost Larrikin and Hopeless, and Dexter blamed himself for Larrikin's death.

  
Ghastly wouldn't want to be awake, let alone clean and healthy, either. He didn't want to be, really.  



	3. Keeping His Head Ducked Low

Dexter is pulling on a jacket, keeping his head ducked low. It's not long after breakfast and he barely ate and he knows he should eat more, but something is tugging him outside and it's the feeling that if he stays inside for another moment he might choke or vomit or worse. He pushes out the door, someone, maybe Ghastly? saying something to him as he does so, but fresh air is so close and he needs it so badly. 

  
He gasps for breath outside, like he's surfaced above from freezing cold water. His body is jerking slightly with the shivering he can't seem to get rid of, and part of it hurts. A thought vaguely crosses his mind of how Larrikin had it worse.

  
The thought comes and suddenly Dexter is retching over the side of the sidewalk into the bushes, pushing out what little food he ingested and mostly bile, straining and burning his throat as he does so. He's gasping for air again when he's done, he feels so, so sick. 

  
There's a hand on his back, warm and calloused and steady- Ghastly, then. "You need to come inside," he says after a long pause, making sure Dexter will not sick up again in the next few moments. Dexter has his head in his hands, hiding his pale and sweaty face, he shakes it quickly.

  
"No," he chokes out, "no, I need- I need to walk, I need to, to.." He needs to do something, he needs to move. It's just Ghastly's hand on him but it's _crushing_ him, he's sure his spine is trying to shatter under the weight. He jerks, pushes, moves away from Ghastly, swearing he's moving a million miles an hour. But, really, he's barely a few feet away from Ghastly.

  
Ghastly is worried, Dexter hates seeing that look on his face. "You need to come inside, Dexter," he says again. Dexter shakes his head, trying to back up, but Ghastly isn't the one who's almost certainly in shock and sick, and is so much fast, stepping forward only a few feet before putting a gentle hand on Dexter's shoulder. The other hand finds his wrist, and Dexter is being led back inside. He only barely registers the gentle reassurances pouring out of Ghastly's mouth.


	4. "I'm going to leave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask for tags maybe?  
> Updates every Saturday.

It's early when Saracen wakes up, this morning. He finds Dexter on the couch, staring at nothing. He doesn't say anything, not eager to startle Dexter, and instead sits on a chair that has been placed near-by the couch. They sit in silence, Saracen glancing at where Dexter is looking, but finds nothing to catch his own interest, not even the faint marks of the paint.

  
"I'm going to leave." Dexter says, after a while, startling Saracen who had begun to count the rows of thread in the carpet that was still haphazardly placed down. Saracen looks up, raising a brow.

  
"Okay? Later today or in a few minutes?" Dexter shakes his head.

  
His voice is monotone, and his eyes are.. Glassy. He just can't shake this. "A week, at most, I think. I'm.. Not coming back for a while." Saracen's lips press into a firm, thin line and he is quiet, brows furrowed. He is not a fool, and does not need it explained further of 'what do you mean?'

  
"Why?" He asks instead, folding his hands into his lap, and attempting to make eye-contact with Dexter. Neither have shaved in a while, but Dexter is beginning to grow a proper beard, and it doesn't really look great on him. Dexter is silent for a long while, and Saracen debates asking again, before he speaks.

  
"I can't.. I can't stay. Lar-" He nearly chokes, and looks down, and has to take a moment to breathe, heavy breaths, and swallows heavily. "Larrikin," and he forces the name of their fallen comrade out of his mouth with physical pain, a look of sickness trying to overtake him. He forces bile and emotion back down, "Larrikin, I- I know everyone will say it's not my fault he's gone. He chose to do what he did. And, and I get that. But- but I can't just sit and accept it. Trying to do that makes me physically ill, it hurts and I can't eat or sleep, and I'm so.. I'm so hungry and I'm so tired. I need time away from you guys because-" and he's crying now, tears and snot streaming down his face, and he's gripping so tight at his arm and chest, trying to breathe and get it together. "Because I love, I love you guys so much, but looking at you guys reminds me of Hopeless and- and Larrikin and it hurts, it hurts so much-"

  
He doubles over, sobbing and heaving breaths through clenched teeth. Saracen goes over to him, pulls him vaguely upright, and into a hug. He holds him, rubbing his back as Dexter sobs, loud and full of mourning into his stomach. He does not shush him, reassure him that 'everything will be okay' when he knows nothing is currently okay. Dexter grips so tightly onto Saracen, trying to ground himself, that Saracen is sure he's leaving bruises in the tender flesh of his sides. He doesn't care about that, and instead cares more about Dexter being able to breathe.

  
Dexter at some point stiffens, and Saracen manages to move him into enough of a sitting position that when he vomits from crying too hard, it is on the part of the floor that is hardwood and not the carpet, nor on Saracen. Dexter tenses and untenses as he throws up, and it's mostly all bile, and Saracen's heart aches for his friend. 

  
After some time, Dexter settles enough to be left alone for a moment, and Saracen cleans up his sick.


	5. Not even a full year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this uploaded late, I've been busy moving.

The week is halfway through, and it seems Dexter will be staying for the whole week. Anton stops at the doorway, looking in, knocking with his knuckles on the doorframe. Dexter glances at him, swallows, nods. Anton tilts his head, hair that hasn't been washed in too long falls in his face from out of a loose ponytail. "Do you want help?" He asks after a moment, voice loud in the otherwise empty house. Dexter jerks hs head so fast to look at him it makes him dizzy for a moment.

  
"Why would you want to help?" He asks, holding a hand to his temple. Anton takes the question as a yes and walks in.

  
"You never did learn how to fold your clothes right," he answers, and picks up a shirt and begins to fold it to emphasize his point. Dexter watches him get through 3 shirts, then nods and sits, watching, body twitching minutely.

  
"You haven't washed your hair in a while." Dexter points out, and Anton nods, but does not pause. "Your clothes don't look any better than mine," and Dexter picks at a stain he hadn't noticed in his shirt before. Anton nods again. "You usually look better."

  
"Do you have a point?" Anton asks, and they both know where this conversation is heading, but neither wants to say it. Anton has moved on to folding Dexter's pants, keeping his hands busy.

  
"Do you miss him?" Dexter finally asks, and Anton freezes for a moment. He stares blankly at the pair of trousers in his hands, noticing that they have dirt stains at the knees still. Finally, Anton nods.

  
"Every day." 

  
And it sounds so final, so real. Mainly, because it is. "How long has it been since.. Since both of them? Do you know?" Dexter does not attempt to look Anton in the eyes, seemingly more interested in the dirt under his fingernails. Anton is quiet for a long time again, and Dexter doesn't ask again.

  
Maybe a few minutes later, maybe a few hours later, Anton breaks the silence, and all of Dexter's clothes that had been laid out are folded.

  
"For Hopeless, its been.. 42 years, 7 months.. 9 days. Larrikin has, has only been about 6 months. 180 days, to be more specific. Not.. Not even a full year." At some point Anton crossed his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. His voice is low, but not angry.

  
More defeated.

  
"How do you keep track?" Anton shrugs, sits down beside Dexter on the bed.

  
"I feel like I have to. Someone else might forget. I don't want to forget." He says, and Dexter's vision is suddenly blurred with tears.

  
"What if.. What if that's all I want? Is to forget? Does that make me a bad person." Anton only shakes his head.

  
"We've never.. Gotten time to properly mourn. I'm not surprised you want to forget when it-" Anton cuts himself off, pushing hair out of eyes. "When it hurts so much."

  
"It hurts for you too?" Dexter asks, somewhere knowing it must, but he has been so consumed by his own grief and Anton still looks more put together than the rest of them, most days. Anton nods, and turns to look at Dexter, and his eyes are watery and bright with unshed tears.

  
"Every day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopeless' and Larrikin's death dates were randomly chosen as there is no evidence to their Exact Death Dates.  
> According to this fic, Hopeless died in 1890, July 15th.  
> Larrikin died 1932, August 28th.
> 
> The day in this chapter in this fic is February 24th, 1933.
> 
> (Figured with https://www.calculator.net/date-calculator.html )


	6. Larrikin

The week is over, and Dexter has been packed for 2 days, most of his things having been set up with Anton's help. They talked for a long time, and Dexter knew Anton didn't like him leaving, but understood why he was doing it, and if he ever wanted to come back, Anton would welcome him.

There has been more conversation, and there will need to be even more when he gets where he's going, but he has to figure out where that is, first. He hasn't told the others he hasn't yet. He knew they'd worry, he knew they wouldn't let him go. He doesn't want to know where he's going yet.

He just needs to leave.

The drive to the airport is long, and he is quiet the whole way, ignoring the taximan's chattering about nothing in particular. Dexter rubs his bloodshot eyes and tries to not focus on the sound that's overwhelming him. Noise is too much and so is silence, but he's never needed to be somewhere where it's quiet, like he does now. 

The plane ride is short, and he'll need a job for a while to work the money back up again to ride the plane to somewhere else, wherever he actually meant to go. But he's in Wales now, and Larrikin died here, and he's been on the verge of a panic attack the last 30 minutes of the ride. He grabbed his bag when it landed, and practically ran out of the new airport, bumping into people and ignoring their shouts of surprise and anger.

And he did what had become natural so recently, he walked, and walked off paths, and down into fields and everything has settled into the ground that even spoke of a war by now. It is clean, and new, and a bit muddy. Nothing was ever wrong here.

But those rocks are familiar and Dexter breaks into a sprint and collapses in front of them, vision blurred by tears. It hasn't erroded away, not yet, a deep carving in the rocks, made by crude knives in the hopes of memory.

_Rover Larrikin._

And it hurts, it hurts so, so god damn much, and Dexter lays on the ground beside the rocks, hoping to turn to stone, but he didn't become an elemental, so he can't. He's ready to lay there until he dies and rots and moss grows on his tired bones, but Larrikin wouldn't want that, so he doesn't.

But if Dexter does lay there, maybe for hours, crying and pretending for just a moment, he can feel Larrikin's arms around him, hear his voice humming his favorite songs and telling Dexter silly jokes to cheer him up, _'turn that frown upside-down, Dexy, it's not all bad'._

Well, no one but Dexter, and maybe Larrikin himself would know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end!  
> I hope you enjoyed reading through this exploration of Dexter's character during this, please review when you're done reading and have a nice day!


End file.
